Chapter 5

Elias McLaren’s POV

I—I lost it.

Oh God. I killed her.

I killed her!

FUCK!

Krystal. My younger brother's daughter. My niece. The damn girl I raised under my roof. I— I can’t breathe. I’m pacing. My hands are trembling, slick with sweat and something worse—something red and sticky that stains every breath I take. I keep looking back at her body. Her lifeless, twisted form slumped against the cracked linoleum floor of that dingy little apartment.

I check her pulse again.

Nothing. Nothing.

No heartbeat. No flutter of breath.

Just silence.

She’s gone. And I—I did that. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Hell, it wasn’t even supposed to be serious. I came over to talk—to give her a piece of my mind after she embarrassed Ivy in front of those VIPs at La Vostra. Ivy cried all night, saying Krystal made a scene, made her look like a fool. I believed her. Of course I did. She’s my daughter.

Krystal? She was just my responsibility.

And I wanted to teach her a lesson. That’s it. A few slaps. Put the girl back in line.

But then I saw the ticket.

That ticket.

Clutched so tightly in her hand like her life depended on it. Even after the first slap. Even after the second. She wouldn’t let it go. I could see it—crumpled, half-wet, but still legible enough for me to spot the numbers.

10 million dollars.

Ten. Million.

I saw it with my own eyes.

Suddenly everything else blurred—her defiance, Ivy’s tantrum, even my pride. My heart pounded with one word, echoing over and over: Salvation.

Do you know what that kind of money could do for a man like me?

I’ve been drowning.

Drowning.

The banks were circling. My company—Cigar McLaren Inc., our family’s legacy—was months, maybe weeks from collapse. Debts I couldn’t explain. Loans I couldn’t pay back. The mortgage. The private school. The image.

That ticket was my lifeline. My chance to fix everything.

But she—she wouldn’t give it to me. Even with her lip bleeding, her eye swelling shut, she clung to it like it was her soul.

I begged. I yelled. And when I tried to snatch it from her hand—

She ate it. The bitch swallowed it.

I couldn’t believe it. I lost it. I tried to reach into her mouth, tried to force her to cough it up, scream, "Spit it out, you selfish brat!"

But she gagged and gasped and passed out.

And I… I don’t even know when I grabbed the knife. It happened so fast. The rage. The panic. The image of my company slipping through my fingers.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

I can still hear the sound. Still feel the weight of it in my hand.

She collapsed. She didn’t move.

I stood there, panting. Sweating. Frozen in horror.

Then—reality crashed in.

What the hell did I just do?

She was just a girl. Ryan’s little girl. The baby I held once in my arms, the one I promised to protect when he died. And now she’s—gone. Because of me.

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve turned myself in. But I was desperate.

So I did what any terrified, cornered man would do. I cleaned. Everything.

I grabbed gloves. Bleach. Rags. Wiped down every surface. Every drop of blood. Every fingerprint.

I poured bathroom bleach down her throat, hoping it would destroy the ticket—hide the evidence. Was it insane? Yes. But I was spiraling. I couldn’t think straight. I just needed that thing gone.

I burned her clothes.  Scrubbed the knife.  I took her phone and smashed it.

Wiped the doorknobs. Swept up the blood.  Even opened a window to air it out.

When I was done, I looked around. Like it was just another empty room. Like it hadn’t witnessed the worst of me. And now… now I have no choice. I have to disappear. Get rid of my car. Change my name.

Leave the city. The country, maybe.

Because if anyone finds out—

If anyone connects the dots—

It’s over. My family. My company. My name. My freedom.

Gone. All over a damn ticket.

*****

Krystal's POV

It was… darkness. Not the kind you see when you close your eyes. No. This was a suffocating, endless, swallowing void—where time didn’t move and thoughts floated in circles.

No light. No warmth. No sound. Just nothingness.

Maybe this was hell. Not the fire-and-brimstone kind, but the quiet, cruel one where you drift alone, forgotten, where your screams echo into the void and no one hears you.

I wasn’t sure how long I was floating there. Maybe hours. Maybe days. Maybe I was already dead.

My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore. Like I was trapped inside it, but couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.

And then— A sound. Faint. Distant. Like it came from behind a thick wall or under water.

Knocking.

Then a voice. Muffled. Panicked. "Krystal? Anak, are you home? Krystal! Please—open the door! Krystal!!"

My heart—or whatever was left of it—twitched.

That voice. I knew that voice.

Tita Maribel. My neighbor. A sweet Filipina widow with two grandkids who lived just across the hallway. She always offered me food—pancit on birthdays, arroz caldo when I was sick, mangoes wrapped in newspaper when her cousin from Queens dropped by with a box.

She was one of the few people in the building who ever showed me kindness. Who saw me. She was outside. Knocking. Calling my name.

And suddenly, I wasn’t in the void anymore. I was back in my body.

And God, it hurt. My throat felt like it had been scraped raw and then set on fire. My chest burned. My ribs ached. Every breath was a war. My body—torn, stabbed, broken—was begging to shut down.

Uncle Elias. The knife. The ticket. The betrayal.

It all came rushing back. And with it… the shame. The heartbreak. The horrifying realization that I had fought so hard to survive, and still somehow ended up dying on the kitchen floor of a life I barely built.

I tried to hold on. Tried to reach for the light. Tried to hope that someone would break down that door.

But I couldn’t. I was too tired. Too broken. And in that moment, I wished… I wished I could just let go.

Let me die. Let it end.  Let the pain stop. Please…I had nothing left. No love.  No family.  No dream.

And even the one thing I won—the lottery, the miracle—was stolen and soaked in blood.

So I let go. Or at least… I thought I did. Because what came next… Wasn’t death.

It was something else entirely.

—a scream. High-pitched. Guttural. Tita Maribel.

She’d opened the door. I don’t know how she got in—maybe she kicked it open, maybe she forced the lock, maybe angels themselves held it open for her—but there she was.

“Krystal!! Oh my God—Krystal!! Call 911! CALL 911!”